Lando’s brows make an impressive attempt to join in the middle. “What — what do you mean?” With his head cocked to the side like that, he’s reminiscent of a curly-haired puppy. Oscar can picture it, Lando as a poodle.

“Alex and George,” he shrugs, gaze flicking back down to the table between them. Though he’s aiming for nonchalance, there’s an unpleasant sensation digging into his stomach. “Not sure they like me very much.”

Lando’s face does this funny, twisty thing. His expression runs through about a hundred different emotions at once, most of which Oscar can’t name. It settles on disbelief, eventually, his lips pursed halfway between sad and amused.

“Oscar,” he speaks slowly, reaching over to curl their pinky fingers together. Oscar has to meet his eyes then, a little helpless about it all. “You do know they’ve been trying to date you too, right?”

That’s — no, Oscar would definitely know of that was true. He shakes his head, frowning. “What? No, they — they keep talking about you. Like, all the time. I think they’re trying to. I don’t know. One up me or something.”

“Right,” Lando’s still using that same soft, slow tone, like Oscar’s a child who needs a bit of extra help. It should be irritating. “And what have they been saying?”

Oscar shrugs again. “Like. You know. They just keep mentioning all these places you’ve gone on dates, saying we should all go to that one restaurant back in Monaco because they know how much you love it there. Like they think I don’t know that about you? It’s —“

Lando’s clearly heard enough; he looks practically fit to burst as he interrupts him inflow. “They’re trying to ask you out,” he says incredulously. “Mate. You’re supposed to be the smart one, honestly.”

Oh. Oh.